Lessons I’ve learned from my dogs

I know the name of every dog I ever owned. I’ve heard their barks in my dreams. I’ve learned more lessons from them than I did from my college professors.

My first dog was Rusty, a beagle. When I was eleven my family moved from Brooklyn to Long Island, and he was the only friend I took with me. I was lonely in East Meadow, its isolated houses and neat lawns. Rusty and I took long walks through empty streets. But a month after moving in, Rusty nudged open the front door and ran away. I drew signs and taped them to telephone poles with my parents’ help, to no avail. Did he run back to Brooklyn? I’ll never know. He taught me that friends aren’t forever. He taught me that too much freedom can mean losing the people you call family.

I searched for friends in Long Island, acceptance. A neighbor knew we lost our beagle and showed up one evening with a stray weimaraner. He was a sleek ghost of a dog with sinewy build and a loud bark. He’d been hanging out in an alley between houses, scaring kids. My parents asked me if I would take care of him. It was winter, and we had a moment in our backyard under a bright cold moon. The dog had clear blue eyes and permitted me to scratch his neck. I named Silver under a moon that color, deciding what the heck.

Silver in my arms, mid 1970s

I became an awkward teen-ager – shorter than other kids, in hand-me-down clothes from my brother. But Silver was the Arnold Schwarzenegger of dogs. Muscular and large, he won me friends. A boy in the neighborhood who ride his bicycle around the block told me Silver looked like a dinosaur. He and I would set Silver free in a large sump near my house, watching him take off after squirrels. One time after a snowstorm we took Silver there and tied a rope from his collar to a sled. I sat on the sled gripping Silver’s leash while my friend yelled the dog’s name from afar. The dog tugged and tugged, got the sled gliding fast. I held on for dear life, bushes blurring past, snow stinging my face. I couldn’t stop laughing.

We became a gang of bicycle riders, a half dozen of us, sometimes more, but we walked too and often Silver came with us. Some friends had dogs. We’d set them free in the sump and hung out, as they chased each other and rodents. Silver taught me how to make friends and about the value of parallel play, the fun of playing alongside each other.

After graduating from college in 1983, I spent the remainder of my student loan money on a whirlwind trip through Europe. A $400 Eurail pass bought me two months of unlimited rail travel. Silver died while I was away. My parents didn’t tell me until I returned. Silver was 11 years old. I walked through the front door and discovered another dog in Silver’s place. Bruno was a German short-haired pointer – a medium sized dog. I was upset at my parents for not telling me Silver died while I was away, as if he could be replaced like a burnt-out light bulb. They didn’t want to ruin my trip, they said. Silver taught me that sometimes we don’t get to say goodbye to our friends. He taught me that what’s alive one day may not be the next.

Bruno, mid 1980s

Bruno was a lovable dog that hid under the piano during thunderstorms and mainly wanted his stomach scratched. I was in my twenties, nothing was settled in my life. I came home at dawn from a New Year’s Party. I felt wired and depressed. I came home to my parent’s house; they were away on vacation. I went into bed, depressed. I let Bruno sleep on the bed next to me, and fell asleep holding my dog in my arms. He taught me that, for comfort, there’s no substitute for a warm breathing body.

After college I moved to Queens for a job in New York City as an assistant editor at a magazine. I saw Bruno only when I visited my parents. When my parents divorced, Bruno stayed with my mother. He became incontinent and his back legs stiffened with arthritis. I would have taken him in but my landlord in Queens didn’t allow pets. I felt his loneliness when he was euthanized at the vet because no one wanted him. Bruno taught me that when creatures turn old we sometimes push them aside because they interfere with our lives. Which is what we sometimes do with old people.

Luna

I went through twenty years after that with no dogs. I was married, divorced, diagnosed with cancer, worked at The Associated Press in New York City, underwent chemo, remarried. Shortly after moving to upstate New York with my family in 2003, we bought a silky terrier, Luna. She was my first female dog. My daughter was just a couple of years old, and would pick up Luna and drop her, and I considered giving away Luna, afraid she would turn out crazy, snap at kids. But she didn’t. She is mellow and loving. She’s unflappable. She taught me you should let things roll off your shoulders when you know where your next meal is coming from.

In 2009, we bought another small dog. Tilly is a toy poodle. She’s obedient, damn cute, and dying to play. I want to clone her. We were afraid Luna wouldn’t accept her, but after sniffing each other, they’re fine together. After that, we considered adopting a child, confident our daughter would accept a sibling. We didn’t, but still feel that way.

What I like is how Tilly and Luna greet me. I come home after a few minutes away – taking in the

Tilly

mail, say. They lick my face as if for the first time in five years. They’ve addicted me to unconditional affection. No matter what my mood, they’re always in the mood to slobber all over me.

Every morning I take Tilly and Luna to a forest near our home to wander the paths, unleashed. The three of us go off path and explore. I try to get lost. The low sun cuts through pillars of trees, squirrels scurry, mourning doves coo. Tilly digs a hole, trying to get at a chipmunk. Luna takes her time sniffing for evidence of other dogs. But she eventually catches up to me.

We should let ourselves moments of freedom. When we reach a crossroads take time to check who else has been this way. Consider your path carefully. Follow your instincts, but don’t lose sight of the person in front of you. Leave an impression on the path, mark your territory, for others are sure to come this way.

When my dogs pass on, a part of them stays with me. They influenced who I am, the decisions I make, the paths I’ve chosen. If I knew how to say thanks in dog, I would. For now, a simple pat on the head will have to do. I hope the lessons never stop coming.

5 Responses

This blog is so touching. It took my heart away. It stole my tears ( I literally teared up ). This blog is one I needed to keep reading, if I had stopped in the middle, well… It would be like pretty much not living to see and read about your life. Each of those dogs were like an element of you’re life. They shaped you into who you are. Every one of them mattered. And still matters. Anyway I loved your blog Poppi! Keep up the amazing and outstanding hard work! Love you.❤️

“They influenced who I am, the decisions I make, the paths I’ve chosen.” – such a well written blog and so many readers can empathize and relate! Thank you for sharing this with us. This post really reminded me of a book I just read that definitely embraces the notion that pets, particularly dogs, can teach us SO MUCH about life and how to live it well. The book is called “Watson’s Way” by author Joel Lund (http://bit.ly/WatsonsWay). Too often I read books that somehow feel like the author was not connected to the subject, but this one I can honestly say the author wrote from his heart. Using a family dog named Watson to teach us about the struggles of life and growing up, the author explores many subjects that touched my heart. The book shares solutions and coping strategies through the use of his beloved family pet. This book reaches out to you with a level of kindness and spirituality rarely seen these days. For all the animal lovers out there this book is a must read for sure!